


One Regret

by Your_Narrator



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Angst, Canon Universe, Emotional Hurt, M/M, Multiple Universes, Secret Crush, should I tag this with death? i mean, we dont know if anyone in batim is dead, well you guys get it if you know batim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-29 14:22:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20083657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Your_Narrator/pseuds/Your_Narrator
Summary: Hence, nothing remains except our regrets. And the souls that occasionally scream from behind the door.





	One Regret

**Author's Note:**

> If you know the reference in the summary, brag in the comments.

Now, I will admit, once in a while this apartment gets lonely. For the most part, my radio fills the air enough to keep my soul soothed, and the notes that I’ve laid about my home keep my mind a-chuggin, but once in a while it would just... Get to me. I would miss having company, hearing voices actually talking to me... having other souls around...

Well, I guess I’m not actually lacking souls around me, am I?

Almost every day, a new shrill cry echoed through my mind, one of thousands experiencing something awful in a dimension I can only peak into. On countless occasions I have tried to open my door, to peak further into the hell I had created, only to find the sidewalk at my feet and anxious cars speeding by. It is surreal; as if I am in two places at once, with two different universes pulling my mind like taffy. I know Henry comes through, but I also know the milkman comes by every morning. I hear cries of sorrow, but I also hear the laughter of the kids playing outside. Why did I even move into a neighborhood with those brats, anyway?! They’re always up too early...

But to be fair, the other dimension is more annoying than anything else. It interrupts my day, even if most of my days are uneventful. Just two weeks back I had to deal with that bastard Lawrence playing his damn banjo at my door for hours. I’m not sure he even knew what door he was at; he just kept playing. I think I even heard him talking to.... Zack Fain? I think our lyricist was named Zack. Nonetheless, it drove me crazy, to the point I banged on the door, demanding he stop, only to open it and see the back alley. I’ve heard the clanking of some strange machinery in the middle of the night, the roars of battle have echoed through my living room, and occasionally an inhuman screech would try to burst out my front door. Thank goodness I’ve always had my wits about me, or I’d go insane! These damned souls are nothing but a nuisance on my ears!

... Or at least, they are for the most part.

I’ve only heard his voice once, but it was the only day I actually... Felt sorry. I’d never admit that to anyone else, mind you, but it’s true. I was re-reading one of my favorite letters - the one from Allison, that doll - when a scream came through the back door. It wasn’t sad, or fearful, or loathsome like I was used to. It was just angry, furious, and it only said one word...

_"Drew!"_

But I knew that accent. I knew the cadence, the accent, the aggression. It was Bertie. Bertrum Piedmont. Out of every soul that swarmed beneath my feet, he was the only one who’s voice could break me, and on the day I heard it, I threw myself towards that back door.

“Bertie!” I called.

But there was no response.

I ripped open the door, almost pulling my weak arm out of its degrading socket, only to see the same damn alleyway. No park. No Bertie. But I knew that was his voice, and for once my own failure trapped me in its hold. I fell to my knees in that doorway, crying as if my childhood pet had just been hit by a car.

Bertie was... Different. He was an ass, a gloater, a man with more money than I could ever dream. When I hired him, he immediately made it known that he had a plan for Bendyland, and that I was along for the ride. I actually argued with someone through-and-through for the first time since I started that damn studio, and it felt... Wonderful. Great. My aggression went out on him, his aggression came out on me, and it formed something unique. Something I think few would understand. We were like one another’s punching bag; we could scream and yell all we wanted, but the other was still hanging down from the ceiling, ready for another shout at a moment’s notice. It was that security of expression that brought us closer. It was those screams that always made me excited to see him. At the time, I didn’t realize what I was feeling. I was too busy with the studio to feel the enchantment he put on me by simply existing.

His eyes sparkled green when he got excited, and his crooked, unkempt teeth somehow made a feisty smile. Any time something went right, he looked like a cartoon himself; bubbly and... Cute. Using that word with another man always felt wrong, but it is still how I feel. Bertie was more than cute, though. He was fit, an actual genius - in engineering, art, and business! - and had a genuine charm to him that I never found in anyone else. He was the most likable asshole in existence, and for the small time I had him in my company, I was a fool to not recognize my own feelings for him. An absolute ass for it.

Sometimes I try and occupy my mind by imagining what it would be like if I had realized my feelings. We would have been secretive, yes, but being in love with him would have been a dream come true. The two of us, growing old together, living in a house far too big for us. Eating food far too fattening, Bertie bitching about gaining weight. I’m sure he’d try to sucker me into his exercise routine, but I’d get him to eat more ice cream in return. When we’d argue, I’d shut him up with a kiss, and he’d have to kiss me back, because he’s hopelessly in love with me. Then we’d both apologize before having an amazing night together. It could’ve worked.... It would have been perfect.

But it isn’t, now is it?

Sure, sometimes I wish I had company. Sometimes I wish someone would come over, bringing a pie or something, or even just to say hello. But no one cares about a washed-up animator like me, and that’s not what really bothers me. What bothers me is  _ him. _

As I started doing the dishes, I wondered: is that why I never hear Bertie? Is it because if I did, I’d feel just a bit happier? I’d at least know he’s there, surviving? Not knowing his voice more drug my heart across the pavement every day, and not knowing whether he was surviving broke my soul in two. Is that why you did it? Is that why you let me hear him say my name, just once? Was it to torture me?

Ink dripped past my shoulder, falling on to a plate and slowly dragging itself towards the water below. I picked up the plate as quick as I could, trying to avoid contaminating the water as that heartbeat filled my apartment. That damn heartbeat. I gritted my teeth in frustration, closing my eyes to push the tears away. Even without my vision, I knew that bastard had coated the room in his ink.

“Heard me asking questions, huh, you goddamn abomination?”

**Author's Note:**

> MY JOURNEY TO GET MORE PEOPLE TO SHIP JOETRUM CONTINUES. I have recently been too exhausted to write, but FINALLY I got something done...  
Anyway, I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/your_narrator13) if you wanna check me out, and hopefully I'll push myself to draw this ship soon! Thanks for reading~


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